


where you are now

by epicfrenchfry



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, i cant stop crying, im just, my poor sweet boy, theon greyjoy was a Good Man and he deserved better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicfrenchfry/pseuds/epicfrenchfry
Summary: "Everything you did brought you where you are now. Where you belong. Home."Jon reaches the godswood too late, and what transpires after. Or, my miserable version of what happens next after the end of 8x03





	where you are now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megalomaniacal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megalomaniacal/gifts).



> I wrote this while sobbing because my sweet perfect Thee deserved so much better

_Dead._

_Dead, dead. He was dead._

Jon burst into the godswood clearing, and his gaze fell first on the bodies sprawled around. Ironborn, and wights... Everybody was dead? But not Bran. Bran was okay. Bran was sat under the heart tree, gazing at him, and Arya stood beside him with a dragonglass blade in hand. At her feet were scattered ice shards.

"Bran! Ary!" He stumbled to them both, hands out to grasp their shoulders. His sword fell to the snow. "You're okay." Arya was smiling at him in a proud, wolfish kind of way, and he hugged her tight. But Bran was looking at him, just looking at him, and a sudden worry set in. He realized. "...Theon. Bran, where's Theon?" 

Arya's face went neutral, and her eyes slid past Jon to look somewhere beyond him. Bran said nothing at all, but Jon turned and looked where Arya was looking. A ball of ice settled in the pit of his gut. No. It couldn't be. 

But there, laid in the midst of the bodies, was a familiar form. Jon ran, tripping over corpses, and fell to Theon's side. He grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him to face the sky. His face was slack, skin cooling. Dead green eyes reflected the glow of flames. Something in Jon seemed to stop, that ball of ice spreading and freezing every inch of his insides. No. No, no, no, this couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. 

Theon, Theon, he'd just forgiven... 

A spear in the gut, blood still seeping, still newly dead. Jon choked back a sob and brushed Theon's eyes closed. Every particle of his being was numb, empty, but hot tears still streamed down his cheeks, cutting a clean path through the blood and grime.

"Jon?" Arya asked, voice soft and even. "We did win. The Night King is dead."

The words should have sparked joy in him. He could only guess that it was Arya who had slain him, but the words of congratulations died on his lips. They would have been empty words, anyhow. He couldn't feel much of anything right now, much less joy. 

"It's over, then." It wasn't a question. Arya paused, then nodded. Jon already knew. All the dead had fallen around him, and he knew, and he couldn't even muster up an ounce of relief. Arya's hand fell to his shoulder. "We have to burn the dead," he muttered. He knew it could wait, but he wanted to do it, and do it now. While the wounds were still fresh. While it still made sense to him, while anything at all still made a lick of sense. He would be fool to think this was over. This was only one war; they still had another, and then to rebuild... But first, they would burn their dead. A massive funeral pyre, larger than life and the utter minimum of what Theon deserved, but Jon couldn't give him what he deserved, because he was gone. So he would burn him.

Was it even necessary, now? He doubted, but at the same time knew that the North would have a new tradition for their dead. Jon pulled the spear from Theon's stomach and picked him up, scooping him under the shoulders and under the knees. He held him in devastating silence for a brief lifetime. Theon's head lolled lifeless to one side, and Jon wrenched his gaze away. He couldn't bear it.

He didn't know how he made it to the courtyard. People were moving already, carting their dead separate from the wights amidst tears and wails. A white wolf came darting out, across the courtyard, and Jon practically sobbed with relief. He had thought Ghost was dead, too. The wolf circled Jon, sniffing at his bleeding wounds and at Theon's hand, hanging lifeless. Ghost himself was limping badly, bleeding from a long gouge on his side, but otherwise seemed fine. His muzzle was caked with filth and rancid blood, but he licked Jon's hand and he was thankful nonetheless. 

"No!" Jon looked up to see Sansa, dashing towards him. Tyrion jogged at her heels, his eyes dark and solemn as he took in the carnage. Sansa, however, was solely focused on the body in Jon's arms. He recalled suddenly how close they had gotten, bonded over their torture at Ramsay's hands, and a new wave of grief crashed over him. 

_"Is Sansa okay?"_ Theon had asked, immediate upon his arrival at Dragonstone.

She had been. Now? Jon didn't chance a look at her. He could hear her whimpers, and he couldn't bear to see the tears. Not when he could feel his own down his cheeks. 

Ghost pressed his nose to Jon's hand, cool and wet and comforting. He remembered Theon being so jealous, despite never saying a word of it. He remembered the loathsome looks he would throw in Jon's direction, and the way his gaze would linger on Ghost in a sort of quiet longing. He should have had a wolf, Jon thought, but even that could not have saved him.

_"I've done plenty of things that I regret."_

_"Not compared to me, you haven't."_

This. This, he regretted, more than anything he thought Theon could ever have done. Why had he let Theon guard Bran alone, with only his fellow ironborn? He should have sent more men with him, should have hurried and gotten there faster, should have done more, but all he was doing was setting Theon's body down and stepping away while Sansa fell beside it, choking on her tears. All he was doing was all he could do, and that was to help others in building the pyre.

_"I always wanted to do the right thing. Be the right kind of person. But I never knew what that meant."_

No. Theon had made countless, horrible decisions, Jon knew, but... Theon had it. There was no impossibility there for him, he was doing it, and he was a good person. A good man. Jon had made mistakes, and now he was watching the evidence burn, as thought he could cauterize this wound inside him and let the pain fade. Even if it did, he would always know...

_"It always seemed like there's... Like there's an impossible choice I had to make. Stark, or Greyjoy."_

Both. Always both. Jon didn't know; he wanted to scream and beg, beat this horribly gut-wrenching grief into the ground and be done with it. He had forgiven him, so why...?

Why had Theon still felt the need to prove himself? Redeem himself? 

_I'm sorry..._

_I'm so sorry..._

A Greyjoy, and a Stark. He had died here, home, died in honor. A true Stark in all but blood. Jon didn't know the status of the crypts right now, but... Even if he had to construct it himself, he would make sure Theon got a statue there, right beside Robb's. Beside him, Sansa sobbed, face in hands. All around him, people mourned. Ghost lifted his chin and howled, long and loud and eerie. 

Ethereal. 

Jon lifted his gaze to watch the flames climb the sky, sparks flying out erratically. They sputtered and died too fast against the silky black backdrop of the sky, and Jon sank to his knees and let his tears fall. It still didn't feel real. It couldn't be real.

_You deserved better._


End file.
